Two's a crowd
by bauble123
Summary: Mrs Hudson sold the flat, finally! And who should move in? Sherlock's counterpart:Celia Grant. She's a psychopath, acutely observant, a former cocaine addict & wishes she wasn't a writer. And she's wanted by both the Holmes brothers. John's busy with his daughter & Sherlock takes her on. But having someone as clever as you isn't good when you're a show off, and 3 people are jealous
1. One: a new partner for Sherlock

_Disclaimer: Celia Grant does not, I believe, exist. There is a Cecelia Grant who writes, I discovered, but this is in no way linked to her. The character is entirely fictional, and so are her books. Any extracts from her books were written by me and have never been published. I like my rounded characters. Maybe someday I'll write the books..._

_Two's a Crowd_

Mycroft Holmes sat at his laptop, typing furiously. He moved his fingers swiftly over the keypad, then stopped, staring incredulously at the screen.

"She's out of rehab, then." he murmured.

"What's that, sir?" asked his current secretary, coming in with his eleven o'clock tea in its bone china mug.

"My brother's counterpart." Mycroft explained. "She's out in the open and she's moving to London.

"Sir?"

"You remember – Celia Grant, the writer, the one that's a psychopath as well. She had a bit of a cocaine thing. We tried to recruit her when she was in rehab. You know, Gilbert."

"Oh, yes sir. The woman who wrote _The Empty Bird Cage. _Marvellous, that was."

Mycroft raised one eyebrow dubiously. "Indeed." he said.

* * *

Mrs Hudson came slowly up the stairs, the younger woman walking behind her.

"Well, dear, I have to tell you now there's a bit of a thing with damp in there. It's why I've not had anyone take it. I just can't get anyone interested."

"I'm sure that's quite all right, Mrs Hudson."

"Really, dear? I'd have thought a writer like you could do better for herself."

"Well, everyone has their ups and downs. I'm a little strapped for cash right now, and I need somewhere fairly secluded."

"Oh? You're just like our Sherlock – he never could stand company. Except for John, of course, but he's with Mary now, and his kiddie - little Sophie. She is just adorable. Makes me wonder why I never had children..." The woman – Celia Grant, that is - remained silent. These situations always were awkward. _Socialising_. God, how did people do it? _People_. She shuddered a little, subconsciously. Mrs Hudson opened the door and it creaked ominously. An instant smell of damp and mildew hit them. They stepped in. Celia looked around. The walls were a distasteful shade of brown, the wooden floorboards stained with the drips of years.

"And this is the bathroom, and the bedroom, and the kitchen." Mrs Hudson continued, opening the doors as she spoke. "What do you think?" Celia paused to inspect an interesting clump of toadstools at the edge of a piece of peeling wall paper. It was badly decorated and riddled with damp and mould but it was nonetheless probably the best Celia could get. She needed somewhere cheap and solitary, but near the centre since she couldn't afford taxis. This would have to do. Oh, well. At least the mould would make for an interesting experiment or two.

"I'll take it." she said, sounding far more confident than she actually felt.

"Really? Well then, dear, you'd better come and sign the lease."

"Yes." They trundled off down the stairs. And there it was: Celia Grant had a new home.

* * *

Celia came into the kitchen of 221B Baker Street after a day visiting her publisher. He had tried to get her to do a book signing. Why on earth would she want to do a bloody _book signing_? She'd have to meet people, and talk to them. And they would rave about her sub-standard books and go on about what a gift she had, and she, subject to the whim of her publisher, would not be allowed to tell them that she only wrote because she was bored and hated doing it. She detested all those people who came up and chatted away to her about how "writing was just the best thing ever" and "life was just so much more enjoyable when you could write". It was dreadful. For a start, they expected her to talk back at them, and they always gave awkward looks if she told them the truth: which was that she didn't enjoy writing, and preferred cocaine as a method of boredom alleviation. Not that that was an option now, of course.

"Tea?" she queried, seeing Mrs Hudson standing by the kettle.

"Yes, dear – do you want a cup?"

"Yes."

"All right. Give me a minute to do it." Celia stood uneasily leaning against the wall while the land lady poured boiling water into the mugs and over the teabags.

"How do you take it?"

"Black, with lemon."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Okay then... Let me see if I have any lemon." Mrs Hudson bustled over to the fruit bowl and took out the single yellow fruit, slicing it through with a knife and squeezing it into one of the mugs. "I'll have to keep some on hand – perhaps that sort you can get in a bottle." she added. She handed the mug to Celia. "Here you are dear." Celia took a sip and tried to disguise her distaste; Mrs Hudson had squeezed the entire contents of half a lemon into the smallish cup of tea. "Oh, and can you take this up to Sherlock? My legs aren't what they used to be. Mind you don't annoy him too much. He's easily annoyed, our Sherlock."

"Sure." Celia took a cup of tea in each hand, balancing them precariously. Then she left, grateful for some respite from socialising. At the landing she paused and put her cup down on the shelf just outside her flat, hoping she could leave it to get cold accidentally-on-purpose. She continued upwards, Sherlock's tea gripped in two hands. Not caring about what he thought of her, she took an experimental sip, then pulled away, disgusted. It tasted overpoweringly of sugar. She coughed a bit, and swirled saliva around in her mouth in a vain attempt to get rid of the taste. After a minute, she reached the other flat and pushed open the door with her shoulder.

Sherlock didn't look up from his laptop. "Put the tea down on the side table, Mrs Hudson." he said. Celia obliged and then moved over to the series of tubes and solutions on the kitchen table.

"It's not Mrs Hudson, Mr Holmes." she said, examining the numerous bottles.

"What?" Sherlock shut his laptop with a snap and turned to look at her. She looked up and met his eyes for a brief moment before returning to scrutinise the kitchen.

"You have the job I've always wanted." She commented, opening the fridge and looking with interest at the pair of severed hands that were sitting inside, clasped together as if in prayer. "Consulting detective - quite the dream. And you know we're terribly similar, Sherlock. Both with eidetic memories – I think, anyway. Both with acute observational skills…though yours, I presume, were honed by your older brother and a constant need to be superior to him. Both psychopaths…"

"I'm not a psychopath. I'm a high functioning sociopath." Sherlock corrected, condescendingly.

"They're the same thing." Celia said, matter-of-factly. "You've been waiting years for someone to notice that and point it out, haven't you?"

"Maybe."

"You so have."

"All right, I have, Miss Psychopath."

"I'd rather you called me Miss Grant, or Celia, for that matter."

"Fine. Now get out and let me drink my tea in peace."

"I will, I will. Oh, and you're lime water is going."

"Oh. Leave it, leave it. I want to test the concentration of carbon dioxide, and I think I might be able to do it that way."

"Right-oh." She left, shutting the door behind her. Sure enough, back beside her flat, the tea was cold. She smiled a little. Then she went inside and proceeded to be extremely bored. Actually, she attempted to alleviate it by writing a little.

* * *

[Extract from _The Empty Bird Cage_ by Celia Grant]

Marek looked at Amanda, standing by the window, swaying a little in time to some imaginary music playing in her head. There was always music where she was – she drew it in to her. She could find the melody in the flowers and hear the harmony the wind played to which the trees danced. The clouds parted and a single ray of sunlight twisted down, causing her hair to make beautiful little curling, whirling shadows on the side of her face. Unwittingly, Marek found his fingers dancing across the keys of the piano, tracing out the notes of the tune to which Amanda danced.

She looked up, astonished and somehow halfway fearful, drawn sharply from her reverie. She drifted over to the middle of the room, seeming not to notice Marek, drawn by the haunting tune. Then her arms flew up and her legs twirled and she was dancing. Not amateur, little-girl dancing but real, true dancing, the dance of Giselle and the swan queen, of Pavlova and the Mariinsky. It was beautiful and entrancing and Marek could not look away.

* * *

Celia came downstairs to return the mug. As she made to leave, Mrs Hudson called after her:

"Can you bring back Sherlock's mug, dear?" Celia was beginning to become annoyed with how Sherlock had everything done for him, while she was made to do it herself.

"Of course." she muttered, walking up the stairs. But, then again, it would give her another chance to work on Sherlock. She opened the door to his room and entered. Sherlock was lying on the chaise, hands clasped. His eyes shot open and he turned his head a little to look at her. She picked up his mug.

"You're back then." he said, unmoving. "I looked you up." he added.

"Oh?"

"Writer?"

"Yes."

"Any good?"

"Not to my mind."

"Cocaine."

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Boredom. Isn't it always?"

"Perhaps."

"It was for you."

"What?"

"I looked you up too, Mr Holmes. You aren't the only person capable of utilising Google." Celia said wryly, moving over to the kitchen table where Sherlock had an experiment set up.

"All right." Sherlock sighed.

"What?" Celia took a spatula-full of white powder from a jar and added it to Sherlock's experiment. It bubbled and frothed. She barely noticed. She knew what was going to happen – so did Sherlock. You could tell how bored he was by the fact that he was re-doing experiments people did at university.

"I give in." Sherlock said, shutting his eyes once more. "I'll take you on. Some intelligent company would be a change."

"Wouldn't it? And I added some more calcined magnesia to the mix."

"You read my mind." Sherlock said as Celia left, the door shutting softly behind her. A small, secret smile spread across his face: the game was back on and all was well and good with the world.


	2. Two: John's realisation

John Watson was getting used to ordinary life. There were Mary and Sophie to think of now. Sophie seemed to grow by the day, with her sparkling blue eyes and blonde down-covered head. He had to work more than before, to pay for Mary's extravagant decision to stay home and look after Sophie until she went off to school. He only thought about what Mary had done occasionally now. It was as if being a father had pushed every other thought out of his head. But friends were still friends, and Sherlock was a good one, and one who needed checking up on once in a while. John had the sneaking suspicion that if he didn't keep an eye on Sherlock his old friend would return to drugs, or go insane or something else…commit murder, say. He couldn't get over what Sergeant Donovan had said: "one day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."

He pulled up the brass knocker, set at its constant wonky angle thanks to Sherlock's OCD, and let it drop, listening as the sound echoed through the hall. The door opened from inside and John was confronted with a smiling Mrs Hudson. A head of dark brown curls poked round the kitchen door. Sherlock came out, not really concentrating, clearly. He put out a long arm.

"Mrs Hudson! Kitchen. Now." He turned around. "John! Good to see you! Actually, it's not, I'm lying. I'm a bit busy right now – go upstairs. I'll see you in a minute." He stepped backwards towards the kitchen then turned over his shoulder. "Hudson!"

"Yes, Sherlock, sorry!" Mrs Hudson hurried back into the kitchen and Sherlock shut the door in John's face. John stood there, a little bewildered and annoyed. _So I'll just go upstairs on my own, then, _he thought. _Fine, fine. Nothing wrong with that. I really don't know why I don't just leave._

But he didn't, because Sherlock was his friend - or something like that. He came upstairs and pushed open the door to the flat. Then he stared in utter astonishment; there was a _girl _– well, a woman – in the room. It was of course Celia, though John didn't know her. She was wearing a blue-grey shirt, jeans and a pair of science goggles. He also noticed instantly her flaming red hair, which was tied up in a bun fastened with a pipette – a bizarre image. As he watched, she picked up a beaker and gave it a shake, leaning backwards a little as it seethed in a mass of bubbles. Then she replaced it on the table, took off the goggles and put them next to it. That done, she turned to John.

"Mr Watson – John. Take a seat."

"Hang on a second, miss. Who in hell are you, and how do you know my name?" John was wary as always.

"I follow your blog – don't we all? I'm Celia. Celia Grant." Celia said. "Now please, take a seat." John sat, perching cautiously on the edge of the sofa. Celia sat opposite him in Sherlock's chair. John looked at her, confounded. She was sitting on Sherlock's chair – how had he not killed her yet? He wasn't leading on another woman, was he? Not another Janine. That would just be too awful.

"I'm sure I've heard that name somewhere before." he said, trying to make conversation.

"I write." Celia was blunt.

"Oh, yes. The empty bird cage, was it?"

"Yes."

"It was really good – about the composer and the ballet dancer."

"Indeed."

"What's someone as talented as you doing here?"

"Oh, I'm not talented. I loathe writing. I only do it when I'm bored and no-one will let me take cocaine."

"Oh…" John did not know what to say. Celia noted this.

"Did I alienate you?" she asked. "I tend to do that – psychopath. It's a trait."

"You're a psychopath." It was a statement.

"Uh-huh, same as Sherlock."

"No. He's a-"

"High functioning sociopath? Yes, he is. So am I, for that matter – it's the same thing as a psychopath, John – can I call you that?"

"If you want. So Sherlock's been correcting us incorrectly all these years?"

"Yes, exactly. He was waiting for you to pick up on it. Evidently you never did."

"No… I'm sure I know your name from somewhere else…" John's face was a picture of concentration and thought.

"Ah, yes. Harry. Your sister. I met her in rehab. We didn't get on very well. She probably told you about how I ridiculed her ceaselessly without her realising it half the time." Celia paused, remembering it.

* * *

She walked into the centre. What had possessed her to do this? Oh, yes, a court order, that was it. Oh, god. Rehab. How had this happened?

"So, Celia," She snapped out of her reverie. The stupid counsellor was talking to her. She surveyed the woman: recently divorced – she could tell by the wedding ring, simple, that one; really thought she was doing good – that was the earnest expression; wanted to be younger than she was – really, Celia thought, that dyed blonde hair was awful. The woman squirmed under Celia's steady gaze. "Celia?" And she kept using her first name. That was irritating.

"What? Oh, yes?"

"Harriet Watson is going to show you around. She's really doing well – one of our success stories."

"All right."

"This way." The woman led her through to a room full of people with gaunt faces. They all looked extremely, terribly thick. Celia shuddered a little. "Harry!" the counsellor called across the room. A woman came hurrying over to them. She had dark hair, cut short and boyish. She wore a grey shirt and a pair of baggy jeans. Celia looked her over. Words flashed on and off in her mind. _Alcoholic. Brother – not keen on the wine. No, not wine, spirits. Shots; she held her hands in that particular way. _And, oh Jesus, _lesbian. _

Celia had always found herself attractive to people: it was the combination of red hair and blue eyes. It was really infuriating, especially since most of the time the men (and women) hitting on her were grimy literary types who thought she actually enjoyed writing and harked on about the joys of it.

"Hi." said Harry. "I'm Harriet, though you can call me Harry, since we're going to be friends." She put out a hand and began to toy with a strand of Celia's gingery hair.

"Celia. Celia Grant."

"What a beautiful name."

"Indeed."

"You'll be sharing my room, Celia. Come and put your stuff up." She had managed to escape Harry's clutches until half past nine: bedtime. Not entirely comfortable with changing in the same room as the somewhat creepy Harry, she got changed into her pyjamas in the room's ensuite. After a few minutes of pondering whether she could get away with staying in there all night, she realised that it wasn't really an option, and slid back the bolt to go into the room and face the music.

Harry was sitting on the bed closest to the door – Celia's bed. She was dressed in a vest top and a pair of uncomfortably short shorts. "Hello, Celia." she said, enticingly, as Celia entered.

"Would you mind getting off my bed?" Celia was icy.

"But we're friends, Celia. We _share._ We share a room – why not a bed?"

"Now there's a question."

"The nights are really lonely here." Harry had gotten up and was walking, swaying drunkenly towards Celia. Celia smelled the bitter scent of alcohol edging her breath. She sniffed – someone was smuggling vodka into the place. "But I won't be lonely," Harry continued. "Because now I've got you." She crashed into Celia, putting her arms loosely around her and pressing tight against her chest, squashing her into uneasily close proximity to her. Celia winced; she hated coming close to people, and this was about as close as you could get. Harry staggered forward, pushing Celia onto the other bed. "You're beautiful…" She whispered, stroking the side of Celia's face. Unable to take any more, Celia struck out with a precise cut to the jaw, which sent Harry tottering away from her in amazed agony.

"One," said Celia, standing up and brushing herself off. "Don't get drunk. Two, don't try and hit on me – especially not like that and three, I am _not _sharing a room with you." Promptly, she shut herself in the bathroom and locked the door.

It was the beginning of a long and bitter enmity.

* * *

"Oh, yes, you're right, Harry told me. Wait – what were you in rehab for?"

"Cocaine – another thing Sherlock and I share."

"Right." The situation was saved as Sherlock came in.

"Hello, John." he said. "Forgot you were about." Then he turned to Celia. "We've got a case."

"Oh, good. I've been waiting for something. Experiments can only go so far."

"Quite." Sherlock noticed John's face. The smaller man was sitting there, getting angrier by the second. "Sorry, John. Celia has probably introduced herself? Yes, she's my new partner."

"So you've replaced me." John said, through gritted teeth, clenching his fists.

"No, John…yes. I have. I would say I haven't but you'd prefer to hear the truth straight, I think. You're still my best friend, John, and that hasn't changed. Anyway, I'll still need you now and again to keep my morale high."

"What?"

"I need you to re-enforce the superiority of my intelligence."

"Oh, thanks, Sherlock, really."

"Glad you feel that way, John."

"Sarcasm, Sherlock. It was sarcasm."

"Ah. Sorry."

"You should be."

"You aren't going to hit me again, are you?"

"Don't tempt me, Sherlock."

* * *

The door slammed. John entered the hall way, hauling off his boots and hanging up his coat. He came into the kitchen where Mary sat, spoon-feeding Sophie a bowl of mashed up freezer fodder.

"We really need to start labelling things, John." she said, dipping her finger in the food and tasting it. "I think this may be broccoli and plum." She looked up and, seeing her husband's face, pulled him out a chair and handed him the spoon. "Here, you have a go – fatherly duties always seem to make you feel better. Did something happen with Sherlock?"

"Yes." John lifted up a spoonful and slid it gently into his daughter's mouth. She chuckled and dribbled out a mouthful, which he deftly caught on the spoon.

"What?" asked his wife, tickling Sophie under the chin.

"Stop it, Mary – you make her laugh and then she spits out all her food." he sighed. "Sherlock has a girlfriend." Mary stopped dead and turned to face him.

"I thought he was gay?"

"No, no, he's not – at least, I don't think he is. She's not really his girlfriend – more like my replacement."

"Oh, John, I see. You've been superseded, and you're upset. Back to beating up smack heads with tyre jacks for you, then?"

"Looks that way."

"How do you think they'll get along?"

"I have less than no idea. She's a psychopath, Mary, another bloody psychopath. What happens when you shove two psychopaths together with some corpses?" Mary shuddered.

"God only knows."


	3. Three: two psychopaths and a crime scene

They arrived at the crime scene. It was a block of flats near Earl's Court. Sherlock turned the collar of his coat up against the evening wind and Celia adjusted her beret to cover her rapidly reddening ears. There were a few police cars dotted about, and the area around the flats was fenced off with yellow and black police tape. Sherlock hastened over and pulled up the tape, going under it. Celia began to do the same, but was stopped by Sergeant Donovan.

"Sorry, Miss, but you can't come through here. It's a crime scene, in case you didn't notice." Celia put out a hand and jerked up the tape, putting her head under it.

"Sorry, Sally, not today." she said, speeding after Sherlock. Donovan looked on in amazement.

"How the-" she called after the girl, but Celia was gone, and she wasn't coming back.

Inspector Lestrade was standing by the door. Sherlock came and stood next to him, closely followed by Celia. He looked in surprise at the girl. Sherlock made to enter the flats but was blocked by Lestrade's outstretched arm.

"Hang on a minute, Sherlock, you've got some explaining to do. Where's John, and who the hell is she?"

"John's busy, George – he has a family to provide for, remember? He can't always be gadding about with me. And she will probably introduce herself any minute now."

"Greg." Lestrade said under his breath. "Not George, Greg." Celia took this as a cue to introduce herself.

"Celia." she said. "Celia Grant: psychopath." She saw Lestrade's face and reconsidered. "On second thoughts, that probably isn't the best of introductions. Let me rephrase. I'm Celia Grant, Sherlock's partner." Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "In business only." she added.

"Celia Grant…" Lestrade mused. "I've heard that name somewhere before."

"I write a little."

"Oh, yes. The empty bird cage – bloody brilliant, that."

"Appalling." Celia rectified. "Absolutely atrocious. I hated writing it. I only write to fill in time." Lestrade's face fell.

"Oh…" he said.

"Enough of the chit chat, you two." interrupted Sherlock. "Lestrade? Where's the body?"

"This way." They entered the house. As they walked, Lestrade explained the situation. "Eric Chambers, twenty nine. Found by neighbours who were checking on him. MI6 administrative staff, wasn't at work yesterday. Body stuffed in a duffel bag, zipped up. House was locked. We're at a loss."

"I see." said Sherlock, considering the facts. They came to the room. Sherlock immediately whipped out his magnifying glass and knelt down to inspect the body. Lestrade leaned anxiously against the wall, keenly awaiting the verdict. Celia looked at him in disgust and milled around, surveying the scene. She noticed something under the pillow and reached out a hand to pick it up. The hand was instantly slapped away by a forensics man, dressed in a full-body blue plastic suit. Celia couldn't help but laugh a little at the idiocy of it.

"Careful!" the man hissed. "You can't touch that! You'll mess up the crime scene."

"You've already done that. It's not as if you've actually _looked_ at it, is it?" Celia reached swiftly over and drew out an object from under the pillow. It was a syringe, with the smallest bit of residue left in the bottom. She turned to face Sherlock. "Cause of death?"

"Judging by the state of limbs, facial features and inset of rigor mortis, poison. Something potent – hard to discern what without tests, though I have my ideas."

"Then," Celia said, with a smile. "I think I've found your murder weapon." Sherlock looked up. Celia handed him the syringe. He stared at it.

"Oh, poor Sherlock! You've been usurped – she's as clever as you." Lestrade grinned.

"Shut up, Lestrade. Celia – we should go to the lab."

"No s***, Sherlock." Celia stopped herself, realising the implications of that particular phrase in the present company. "Actually, that's either more appropriate than ever, or not at all appropriate." Lestrade smiled; he'd never thought of that before.

"One or the other." said Sherlock, sliding his magnifying glass back into its case and re-placing it in his pocket. "Now let's get going. We'll let you know if we get anything, Gavin."

"Greg." muttered Lestrade, clearly more annoyed than ever. But Sherlock did not hear; he was already steaming off to the next stop in the great chase.

* * *

Molly Hooper was tired. She would have gone home, but Sherlock was coming, and she didn't want to miss him, so she simply made herself another mug of coffee and set to preparing the cadaver. People often commented on how, being a pathologist, she saw plenty of naked men. While this was, strictly speaking, true, it was not quite the enjoyable experience the idea might suggest. For one thing, the men were usually dead, and not in a slightly sexy vampire kind of way but rather stone cold, all vital functions ceased and cadaverous – which was only to be expected since they were actually corpses. It would have been heaven on earth were Molly a necrophile but since, to her intense thankfulness, she wasn't, it could only be looked on as rather sad.

The man's corpse was curled up, in order to fit in the duffel bag, and, thanks to rigor mortis, it had been set like that. Molly was reluctant to lay the body out flat in case Sherlock could discern something from it, so she left it as it was. That said, it looked disturbing, all twisted up like that – like the man was still in pain. She shivered a little, but not much – you had to get used to horror when you worked in a morgue. Instead she took practical action and proceeded to pull the sheet up over it, hiding it from view.

The door swung open and Sherlock entered. Molly's face lit up with delight. She couldn't help it. She had moved on from Sherlock, at least, she thought she had, but old habits die hard, and the one of being happy whenever she was with Sherlock Holmes was refusing to be killed. But her expression was altogether different when he was followed by a pretty, pale woman with a pointed nose, high cheekbones and striking blue eyes. Molly felt the beast rising up inside of her. She wanted to grab this unknown woman and throttle her. But that was ridiculous. Why would Molly want to do that? After all, all feeling for Sherlock had completely vanished from her.

"You aren't with the latest one any more, then?" said Sherlock, surveying her. "What was his name? Tom? Toby?"

"Ted." Molly corrected him. "Tom was the one I was engaged to, and Toby is my cat, Sherlock."

"Ah. And you're not together?"

"No. Ted wanted an open relationship, and I wasn't willing to comply." Molly's voice was edged with sadness.

"About time too." Sherlock said. "You were too good for him." Molly's eyes sparkled. She could have danced across the room; Sherlock had complimented her! If this were one of her day dreams, he'd have added something else to the end of that, and lifted her up and…but he hadn't, and that was almost better because it proved that this was no dream and entirely real. Celia nudged Sherlock.

"Who's this?" she whispered.

"Oh, sorry." he said, turning to them both. "Celia, this is Molly Hooper, an old friend and a forensic pathologist."

"Special registrar."

"Oh, come on, Molly – I think we both know you do all the real work in this place. You might as well have the title to go with it."

"I suppose." Molly consented. Actually, it was lovely – Sherlock was being nice to her! "And is this your girlfriend, Sherlock?"

"No!" Both Sherlock and Celia spoke in unison.

"I'm Celia Grant – Sherlock's new business partner."

"I see." Molly's tone was cold and brusque. They moved over to the body and Molly pulled back the white sheet a little to show the piercing on the man's neck. "It's an injection wound." she said. "It matches the syringe you found. I haven't had time to cross reference what the poison was, but I'm fairly sure it's something easily available – strychnine, most likely, though the syringe can only hold a little so it could feasibly be ricin. I'm pretty sure that what happened was that he was killed and then stuffed in the bag."

"Are you sure?" asked Celia. "I think it's more likely that it was something that induces flaccid paralysis – botulinum or curare, I expect. I would have thought that rigor mortis would make it hard to crumple the body up like that and fit it in the bag if the man was dead beforehand. If he was not dead, then he could easily get out. However, if he was paralysed, still alive but unable to react, he could easily be put into the bag. Then he would have died from paralysis and constriction of the respiratory muscles, eventually, and if we hadn't found the syringe or the hole – the killer probably meant to come back and clear those up but didn't manage it in time – we would have assumed it was simple cut and dry suffocation. Most likely the police would have covered it up saying he had an interest in bondage and zipped himself in there, or something."

"That does sound slightly more feasible, Molly." Sherlock said. Molly felt her face flushing. That was the sort of hypothesis Sherlock usually came up with. What business had this unknown girl in making something so improbable sound so horribly likely? "Carry out the tests and call me when you have the results." Sherlock continued, but his voice was, to Molly, distant and far away. Molly felt an overwhelming urge to inject curare into this girl – Cicely or whatever her name was – and stuff her in a bag. Then she would have listened to the muffled cries as the woman suffocated slowly. She shook her head, trying to dispel these morbid thoughts. When she looked up, she noticed Sherlock and Celia were gone.

* * *

Sherlock lay sprawled on the sofa, his eyes shut, but not sleeping. Beside him a closed laptop and an empty mug lay on the rug. He wore grey-blue pyjamas and a dark blue silk dressing gown that hung loosely about him, untied. Celia sat curled up opposite him in his chair, her legs over the arm rest, clutching a cushion he had thrown, unwanted, from his resting place. She too was in nightwear, a concoction of a teal vest top, matching pyjama bottoms and a green hooded jumper two sizes too big for her, emblazoned with the words: _Man Booker Winner_. Clearly she cared about literature so little that she thought garment congratulating her on winning its most prestigious prize only fit for bed.

"I'm not sure I should be taking you on." Sherlock said, from where he lay. "I know nothing about you."

"That's a lie." replied Celia, not moving an inch. "You know plenty about me. You know I'm a psychopath, you know that I have an eidetic memory, you know that I write when bored and that I had a brief fling with cocaine. And I know much the same about you, and I know that you have an older brother with abilities that parallel your own, whom you cordially detest."

"You know Mycroft?"

"Well, I haven't met him personally. One of his minions tried to recruit me a while back."

"You refused?"

"Of course; I'd rather they spied on me a little less visibly – their perky little faces are extremely irritating."

"Yes, they are, aren't they?" Sherlock agreed. "Now, since you know my family, it's only fair that you describe yours."

"Oh, god…"

"Do it."

"Fine. Parents – well off but dull as ditch water."

"I can say similar."

"Can't we all? I have an older brother, Edward. He's not like us. He's thick, by our standards, though most people think him quite bright. It's just an illusion. Oh, and he's horribly over-protective and wants me to make friends."

"Ah. I see."

"Quite." The door opened and a head of chestnut curls peeped round. Mrs Hudson entered.

"I came for your mug, Sherlock." she said. Then she looked at the two of them, lying on respective pieces of furniture. "Are you two…?" she asked, looking at them in a way that made it obvious what she meant.

"No!" Celia got in first, adamant.

"Definitely not." Sherlock added.

"Sorry, sorry." Mrs Hudson raised her hands in surrender. "It's just what a person thinks, looking at you two there in your jim-jams."

"Mrs Hudson! You are incredibly quick to assume these things, aren't you? It took John's getting married to stop you thinking he and I were in an amorous relationship."

"Ooh, Sherlock, you do talk awfully funny when you get it into you."

"Do I indeed? Take the mug, Huddie, and leave."

"All right, all right, I'm going." Mrs Hudson backed out of the room. Celia looked amused.

"What a wonderful old lady." she said, once the land lady was safely out earshot. "A twenty first century Miss Marple – by which I mean that she's an interfering old biddy with an ear to the ground when it comes to rumour and gossip."

"Very astute."

"Thank you." Celia stretched out on the chair, curling her toes over the side. "God, this chair is uncomfortable – how do you manage it?"

"I like it, thank you very much. And that's another thing. If you're going to be my business partner you'll need your own chair. We can go and buy one first thing tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Well, you ought to be comfortable when we interview clients. And also, I am somewhat averse to having you reclining in my chair. I'm very possessive of it."

"Clearly."

"Shouldn't you be going to bed?"

"I suppose." Celia stood up slowly, yawning, and padded out of the room in her bed socks. She got to her flat, opened the door, and got into the small bed and under the greying duvet. As she drifted off to sleep, she found herself staring at a clump of fungus on the ceiling and thinking, sleepily, that they looked like aspergillus…the fungus she had charted growing on her mother's bedroom wall aged seven.


	4. Four: a fateful trip to Ikea

Edward Grant opened his newspaper as he ate his muesli at the kitchen table. He liked to keep abreast of what was going on in the big wide world. He was, however, horrified to find, splashed across the entirety of page seventeen, the story of his sister's substance abuse.

_Celia Grant, _(He read.) _acclaimed author and twice winner of the Man Booker prize for her novels "here's to Henry_" and "_The Empty Bird Cage", the latter having been adapted for film, stage, television and radio. _Edward scanned the page. There was a picture of Celia at the awards ceremony when _here's to Henry _won, looking bored and as if she didn't want to be there. He wished his sister could just enjoy things, rather than insisting on remaining disdainful. Then there was an image of her coming out of the rehabilitation centre. He skipped the introduction and read the bit about her and cocaine:

_Six months ago, it emerged that Celia Grant was a habitual user of cocaine. She was sentenced to rehabilitation and treatment for her supposed addiction. Miss Grant maintains that she was always in control of her use. She gave reasons at the time for her usage to the media: "I use cocaine. That's a fact. You poor normal people probably won't understand the reasons why I take it. I have a mental illness; at least, that's what people like my brother who are forever trying to excuse my behaviour call it. In short, I am a psychopath, and psychopaths get bored. Some, in that situation, turn to murder, others to maths and science."_

_"I, on the other hand, am forced to turn either to writing, which I detest, or to cocaine, which is by far the preferable option. I use cocaine because I have nothing else available that will in any way satisfactorily alleviate my boredom. You probably think: so she's bored, big deal, I'm bored all the time. Let me assure you that it is a very different kind of boredom. It's not boredom that leads to forgotten jigsaw puzzles or cross words, but boredom that drives people utterly insane, that leads people to murder. I think that you all ought to be grateful, really, that I turned to drugs instead of homicide." _

Edward sighed. He really wished she wouldn't use the psychopath excuse. He firmly believed that, underneath her weird, unsociable exterior, Celia was just a girl like any other, capable of making friends and going out to parties and whatever else women did. He couldn't grasp the concept that she wasn't ordinary.

* * *

Celia awoke to find a cup of tea beside her bed. She stared at it in surprise. Who had put a cup of tea by her bed, and why? She would have to ask Sherlock about that. She sat up, took a sip of the tea, discovered it was cold, just about managed to swallow it and then got out of bed. With great trepidation, she decided to try out the shower, which she hadn't really looked at when she was shown round. It turned out to have large clumps of fungus and mould all over the walls. Celia shuddered, but got in anyway, because she didn't really have a choice. She twisted the dial beside the showerhead and stopped; nothing was happening. No water came. Celia stood for a minute, just in case it was simply taking a while to get working. But, after a full five minutes, nothing had happened. She stepped out of the shower, shivering. She really needed a wash, but if her shower wasn't working then how was she supposed to get one? Then she had an idea – a moment of pure inspiration.

She wrapped a pale green towel around her, gathered up another towel, bottles of shampoo, conditioner and shower gel and a hair brush and set off up the stairs. When she came to Sherlock's flat, she knocked on the door.

"Let yourself in!" called a voice from inside. Celia did so, and found Sherlock sitting at his laptop on his chair.

"Can I borrow your shower?" she asked.

"What?!" Sherlock closed his laptop and looked up. He reeled; she was, to be fair, something of a sight, dressed only in a towel, her long titian hair falling down around her shoulders. She smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry. Mine's broken and I thought, well, you don't live very far away, right? And you can let me use your shower as pay back for my finding your murder weapon."

"I would have found that in my own time. You didn't have to be there."

"But I was, so will you let me use your shower?"

"Fine. It's through there." Sherlock pointed.

"Thanks." Celia hastened through. Sherlock heard the bolt slide back in the door, and the sound of running water. It was not much of a deduction to see that she was in the shower. Ten minutes later, the water stopped. It was another five minutes before Celia came out, now dressed, her hair still wet and tumbling in a carroty cascade down her back. Water travelled slowly down it, running in rivulets and forming little beads on the ends of strands which dripped down and onto her back.

"Do you have a hair dryer?" she asked.

"No. Why would I?"

"Just a thought. Do you have a chop stick, then, or a paint brush, or a pipette?" Sherlock stood up, tightening his dressing gown cord around his waist, and walked over to the kitchen, rummaging through a drawer. He pulled out a pair of chopsticks and handed them to Celia. She looked at them. They were beautiful dark wood things, enamelled and decorated with cream and red whorls. "Thanks, Sherlock." she said, twisting her hair up into a bun and sticking the chopsticks through to fasten it. "There."

"Very impressive."

"Well, chopsticks are easier than pipettes."

"Are they indeed? Now, we should go and get a chair for you. I vote we go to Ikea."

"But…it's so full of _people_."

"So's everywhere."

"I suppose. Let's go, then. I'll fetch my coat and meet you by the front door. You have to get dressed."

"Quite right." Sherlock hurried into his bedroom and dressed. Then he pulled on his coat, turned up the collar, and went, hands in pockets, to the front door, where Celia stood, waiting.

"Took you long enough, didn't it?"

"Oh, come off it. A man has to look his best."

"Right." They stood on the kerb side and Sherlock hailed a cab. "How do you find the money for these things?" asked Celia, as they hopped in the back of the taxi.

"Ah. Most of the drivers owe me favours – and my brother is a constant source of income."

"Is he?"

"Yes, if one plays one's cards right." Sherlock turned to the driver. "Ikea." he said, simply. The driver tipped his cap and the taxi rumbled off down the winding streets, extremely slowly because it was mid-day, and a Sunday, which gave weekend tourist traffic, and London traffic had not moved any faster for hundreds of years.

* * *

"So, John." Mary said, turning to her husband where he sat, still in his pyjamas, feeding Sophie with a bottle. "I was thinking that Sophie is getting a bit big for the Moses basket in our room, and it's about time we move her into her own room."

"I suppose."

"Well, I thought we could go to Ikea and buy some furnishings – the do it all fairly cheaply, and they have some really nice kid's stuff."

"Okay."

"Cheer up, John. It'll be fun. Come on, a little enthusiasm wouldn't go amiss." John looked up at her and couldn't help but smile. How had he ended up with someone so lovely? Ah, yes, he knew that, drawn to danger.

"All right. Go and get Sophie dressed then, and I'll stick some clothes on."

"That's the spirit." A few minutes later they left the house, their baby daughter in a push chair. Having man-handled the thing down the stairs of the station, they got on the tube, and set off for Ikea, that most wonderful of Swedish flat pack stores.

* * *

Sherlock and Celia got out of the taxi, which drove off without being paid for. Celia was puzzled for a moment, but thought nothing of it. They had just come into the shop lobby when their attention was drawn to the sound of someone calling Sherlock's name. They turned. Mary and John came up to greet them, pushing Sophie in her pram.

"Sherlock! Is this your girlfriend?" Mary asked, curious and half-joking.

"No, no. This is Celia Grant, my new partner."

"Oh I see – John's replacement." Sherlock nodded.

"Hey!" John cut in, but no-one listened.

"So what are you here for?" Mary was querying.

"We're getting me a chair." Celia answered. "Sherlock can't take me sitting on his." John looked up. He was genuinely surprised Sherlock had not murdered this woman if she'd sat in his sacred chair. There must be something else there. Chemistry? No, at least, only the kind with actual chemicals. Those two weren't the sort.

"Oh, right. We're getting some things for Sophie's room."

"Sophie?"

"Our daughter." Mary reached over and pulled back the hood on the push chair to reveal the sleeping Sophie. She put a finger to her lips.

"Celia, we haven't time to chat. Let's go."

"Oh, right, yes. Bye!" The two left. Alone again, John moved over to his wife, who was pushing Sophie over towards the travellator.

"So that's her?" Mary said. "Your replacement?"

"Yep."

"She's certainly striking."

"I know. It's the hair."

"Quite. I wonder if their children will inherit it – it's a recessive gene, after all. It would be a shame to lose that colour."

"What? Their _children_?"

"Of course. They're an accident waiting to happen."

"But they aren't… I mean, they're not…"

"No, but they will."

"You're wrong about that one, Mary."

* * *

Sherlock and Celia were choosing a chair. It was not going well. Sherlock directed her to a tall, straight backed black armchair. Celia denounced it as "Mycroftian".

"I doubt my brother would ever be seen shopping in Ikea." Sherlock pointed out.

"True, but when the government is seriously hard pressed and he is forced into it, that'll be the one he chooses, mark my words."

"Fine. You don't like that one, then. Which one _do _you like?"

"This one's nice." She said, pointing to a swivel chair printed with enormous bright blue forget-me-nots and giant daisies. Sherlock looked her in the eyes. He couldn't tell if she was serious or not.

"No. I am not having that in my house."

"Fair enough – it is pretty dreadful."

"That's putting it lightly."

"Well, how about this one?" Celia indicated another chair. Sherlock surveyed it. It was all right: a plain, simple design, with a machine-washable cotton cover. The main problem was that it was a vivid shade of scarlet. Sherlock looked at it incredulously.

"Seriously?"

"Yes. I like it, and it'll add a splash of colour to the drabness of your flat – it'll contrast nicely with the yellow smiley face."

"You think?"

"I don't see why not. Come on." Celia lugged the chair onto their flatbed trolley. Sherlock sighed. Under normal circumstances, he would have argued his way out of this but, as things stood, Celia had a personality as forceful of his own and was not going to make concessions. Perhaps he could exchange the cover at a later date.

"All right." As they pushed the trolley towards the tills, Celia turned to Sherlock.

"Does John know that his wife is foreign born and most likely an assassin?" she asked, conversationally. She didn't notice John standing behind her, carrying the flat pack components for a cot. Sherlock, however, did.

"Celia…" he began, nudging her.

"I mean, I'm not saying I've anything against foreigners, or assassins, but there's knowing them, and then there's being married to them."

"Hey, Celia!" John called. Celia turned around. "I know perfectly well what my wife is," he paused. "Well, no, actually I have no idea who she is, but to all intents and purposes she is Mary Watson and she always will be. I do know and I would rather you didn't remind me."

"Oh, well, if you know then that's fine. You clearly love one another and that's all that matters. I simply don't condone lying and, if you hadn't known, I'd have made it my business to tell you." John was barely listening. He just wanted to hit Celia Grant, preferably very, very hard.

"Well, I don't-" He paused, thinking about what the woman had actually just said. "Wait, did you say that it's fine?"

"Yes. I see nothing wrong with your relationship." John was confounded.

"Oh, right, then. That's okay, isn't it?" he said, all rage gone from his voice.

"I would assume so." Celia said. At that moment, Celia came over, Sophie in arm, having put the push chair in the buggy park.

"Hello, everybody." she said, cheerily. "Is everything okay, John?" she asked, seeing something in his face. She put a proprietorial arm around him.

"Yes, just fine, thanks, Mary." he replied, looking sheepishly at Celia.

"Absolutely." said Sherlock, resolutely, grabbing hold of the trolley. "Come on, Celia. We have a chair to buy."

"Yes sir!" Celia said, clearly wishing to leave. The two pairs parted ways.

* * *

Sherlock and Celia came up against a problem. They were standing on the road outside Ikea, a taxi waiting impatiently next to them. The driver looked them up and down, an expression of utter disbelief spread across his face.

"How d'you think you're supposed to get that in 'ere? Don't get a bleedin' cab if you can't get your stuff in it."

"Sorry. We will get it in here." Sherlock said, stalling for time as he performed the vital calculations in his head. Celia was doing much the same. Unspeaking, they opened the back door and pushed the chair on its side, sliding it onto the seat. Celia hopped in next to it, giving Sherlock a mock salute. He returned the gesture and got in the front. The cabbie looked at them in astonishment. "The hell?"

"We are very clever people."

"You don't 'ave to state the obvious."

"No, but it helps." They drove off.

* * *

That afternoon, while John and Mary sorted out Sophie's room, after installing the new chair, Sherlock and Celia went to visit the dead man's neighbours. They were invited into a small sitting room and given cups of sweet tea and a plate of biscuits by Mrs Rigby, whose husband was out at work.

"We didn't know poor Mr Chambers very well; he was something of a recluse, you see." she began.

"I understand." Sherlock said, though obviously he didn't. "Did he ever say anything of his work?"

"No, no – deadly secret it might have been, for all I know."

"I see." Celia cut in. "What was his behaviour like? Did he have loud parties, anything odd at all?"

"Not as far as I know. He never had anyone round or anything."

"Right. Did anything change in the past week or so, anyone come to see him?" asked Sherlock, shooting a jealous look at Celia – he was evidently much annoyed that she was taking over the asking of questions – his job.

"Well, we had the windows done. A good thing too, they were filthy."

"What do you mean exactly?"

"The window cleaner came to clean the windows. The management of the block sorts it out. We get given a letter. He had his done the day before ours – the person doing it had some problem or something and they had to sort it out."

"Oh, really? Do you have a copy of the letter?"

"Yes, I think so." Mrs Rigby got up and rifled through her box of papers. Then she pulled out a piece of paper and placed it triumphantly on the table. "There." she said.

"Thank you, Mrs Rigby. You've been very helpful." Celia said, as she and Sherlock stood up to leave.

"But neither of you have touched your tea!" Mrs Rigby protested.

"Oh, haven't we?" Sherlock looked down at the cups. "I rather forgot they were there. Sorry for putting you to trouble. Thank you." They just about managed to escape without being forced to drink the stuff. Once they were safely out on the street, Celia turned to Sherlock.

"Wasn't that tea horrible?" she said.

"Oh, yes. _Milk_. Who drinks milk in tea?"

"Most people, I believe. Not us, though. We take something else in place of it – I lemon, you sugar: opposites – sour and sweet, to other people's bland dairy."

"Yes."

* * *

Mrs Hudson was watching a reality TV programme about weddings of circus performers. She really enjoyed it – she was an avid watcher of crap on television. She knew it was terrible, but it was wonderful fun to watch. The bride and groom were married, on a trapeze, and the end credits rolled. Mrs Hudson picked up the channel changer and clicked one of the buttons, turning off the TV. She stood up, brushing herself off, and checked the room, turning off the lights. Then she shut the kitchen door and went upstairs to collect the mugs from her tenants.

She knocked on the door of Sherlock's flat. There was no response. She pushed it open and found herself smiling; Sherlock was lying stretched out on the sofa, snoring gently. Mrs Hudson noted the presence of a new chair. She nodded to it, thinking that the vibrant ruby red added a helpful splash of colour to the dark, musty room. She stepped over to the chair, picking up Sherlock's empty mug as she did so. She gave a small gasp, then relaxed back again and chuckled a little; Celia was fast asleep, curled up in the new chair. She left them there. They really were like children and, though she wasn't their housekeeper, she could very well afford to be their mother.


	5. Five: visiting people

**Please, Molly and Sherlolly fans, be aware that Sherlock will make Molly cry in this chapter T_T It killed me to write it, but it had to be done.**

Sherlock woke up. He felt a little odd. He thought for a moment – ah, he was on the sofa, that was it. He sat up, yawning, and put his feet on the floor, almost knocking over the cup of tea Mrs Hudson had left there. It was then that he noticed Celia. She was still sleeping, huddled up into a tight ball in her chair. He stood up and walked over to her, nudging her. She jerked awake and sat up, slightly dazed. She looked around.

"Did I spend the night here?" she asked, confused.

"I assume so."

"Yes, clearly. I'll just go and get changed and then we can be off." she said, coming to her senses rapidly as the incredibly intelligent are apt to. She hurried off, and Sherlock did the same. About ten minutes later they met at the door, both dressed in coats and boots. Mrs Hudson came out of the kitchen and into the hall and saw them.

"Are you two off, then? It's very early for you, Sherlock."

"Well I've things to do Mrs Hudson, criminals to catch." Sherlock said, brightly. "Incidentally, why did you not tell us that we were asleep in my living room? You must have noticed."

"You were sleeping so soundly, Sherlock. I didn't want to wake you."

"Right. Thank you, Mrs Hudson." And with that, the two left.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk, waiting. His secretary peered around the door.

"He's here, sir." The man said, nervously. He had only just got into the job and if he was honest, his new boss scared him a bit. They had said that he was efficient, but he hadn't realised quite the scale that they meant.

"Good, good. Send him in."

"Yes sir." The secretary shut the door. Then he turned to the man standing outside. "You can go in now." he said. The man nodded and pushed open the door.

"Ah, Mr Clarke," Mycroft said, not looking up. "Take a seat." The man sat, rather uneasily, opposite Mycroft.

"Can I, um, ask why you called me in?"

"Of course. You have already, have you not?" Mycroft was disdainful. The man swallowed uncomfortably.

"I s-suppose so. Why _did _you call me?"

"Miss Celia Grant. You are her publisher, are you not?"

"Yes. She's rather brilliant but she's terribly _difficult_ - one of our most problematic authors. She writes wonderfully, you see, but she refuses to set deadlines, or do book signings or _anything_." Mr Clarke sounded exasperated. Mycroft looked amused.

"Well, Mr Clarke, Miss Grant is a psychopath. It's only to be expected."

"Yes, but you'd think she wouldn't mind writing her name on a few pieces of paper."

"Would you?" Mycroft shot the question straight back at the publisher. The man was terrified and had no idea how to react.

"Y-yes. I would."

"Would you indeed? Now, the question: how best might one go about getting Miss Grant to comply with one's request?"

"Oh, I wouldn't know. I've never been able to get her to do anything I want. She just brushes off the question or gives me a smart answer." The man shifted awkwardly, drawing the comparison between Celia and Mycroft.

"Thank you." Mycroft smiled sweetly, a smile that hid his venom but somehow showed it more obviously that ever. It was the smile of a wolf as it spotted the scarlet cloak – no, that was wrong. It was the smile of the mafia boss as he says 'now we won't be on my turf again, will we?' Mr Clarke looked up. Mycroft was staring at him, an irritated expression on his face. "You may go." he said, as if he were stating the obvious, waving his hands at the man. Mr Clarke stood up and left.

Mycroft pursed his lips and steepled his fingers. Why were people always so stupid? It was a night mare. He was, as he had frequently told his brother, living in a world of goldfish. And not even clever goldfish – the kind of goldfish that were too dim to be used in lab tests. His secretary entered once more.

"What is it this time?" asked Mycroft, increasingly annoyed. His secretary quavered.

"I-it's the other one, sir, the doctor woman." Mycroft nodded.

"Send her in." His secretary nodded and then escaped, gratefully. A moment later a woman entered. She had dark hair slicked back into a pony tail and wore a crisp white shirt and black trousers. Her face was all righteous anger. Mycroft looked at her with contempt. "Miss Mendelev?"

"Doctor Mendelev to you." the woman replied, haughtily.

"Doctor Mendelev. I have called you here to discuss a former patient of yours, Miss Celia Grant."

"I'm sorry but I can't talk about that – doctor-patient confidentiality."

"I think we are a little above that level now, Miss Mendelev." She opened her mouth to argue, but Mycroft put out a slim hand and silenced her. "No objections. This is on the highest level of intelligence – you are looking at MI6 and above, no less."

"What do you lot want with my patient?"

"That is for me to know and you to never, ever find out. Now, tell me about Miss Grant – let's begin with your diagnosis."

"High functioning sociopath-"

"I think she prefers psychopath. So do I, as a matter of fact. It's far less pretentious."

"All right. Well, she's a psychopath, extremely intelligent, an IQ off the scale, very insensitive, not very well adapted socially, but that's part of being a high-" She saw Mycroft's face. "-a psychopath, takes control of situations quickly, very dominant, occasionally bordering on narcissism."

"I see. She's basically my brother. And the cocaine?"

"A coping mechanism. She prefers it to writing."

"Don't we all? And what is she coping with?"

"Boredom. It's like a chasm for these psychopaths."

"I know. You should meet my brother, Miss Mendelev. He too is a psychopath with an IQ off of the charts. I am sure he would prove an interesting case for you. I may well be a psychopath also," Mycroft smiled dangerously. "But no-one has ever been able to prove it." The psycho-analyst furrowed her brow.

"No, no, you aren't. You're coping very well with this situation."

"Look at my face, Miss Mendelev. Do I show any emotion? No. That is because I have none." Doctor Mendelev looked at him as if he was insane. "Now tell me, Miss Mendelev, how does Miss Grant react to dangerous situations?"

"Oh, well, she's very quick at it all, sorts it out, and doesn't mind taking risks."

"I see. Thank you. You may go." The psycho-analyst stood and left. Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief. You could almost see his thoughts: _thank goodness she's gone_. Though, knowing Mycroft, this was probably just a smoke screen for his real thoughts and feelings…if he had any. "Henderson!" Mycroft called. The secretary hurried into the room.

"Yes sir?"

"Fetch Anthea, would you? I've a little task for her."

"Will you be wanting a classified location, sir?"

"No. I think we finally have a target that can safely see my office. I don't think we'll even need the tinted windows."

"No sir?"

"No."

* * *

"I'm sorry sir but I don't have you down on the list. One must be stringent about these things." the receptionist said. Sherlock looked at her. If looks could kill, this one would have been an assassin, trained and paid. The receptionist was, however, oblivious, not looking up. Sherlock repeated what he had just said, slowly and loudly, like an idiotic English tourist trying to make himself understood on a day trip to France.

"I. Am. Here. To. See. Molly. Hooper. About. A. Murder."

"You don't have a police badge." the receptionist said, raising her eyebrows. Sherlock fumbled in the pockets of his coat and pulled out a badge, flashing it at the woman.

"Oh, don't I?" he said. She looked up, and her entire demeanour changed.

"Oh, sorry, detective. Lestrade, that's certainly an interesting name…" Sherlock and Celia were ushered through to the morgue. Molly looked up.

"Sh-Sherlock." she said.

"Molly." Sherlock said, curtly. "You have the results?"

"Uh, yes." Molly motioned them towards the laptop set up next to the microscope. "It looks like curare." she said. "Traces of wood resin in the mixture." She sounded close to tears. Sherlock looked at her with an odd expression in his eyes.

"What's the matter, Molly?"

"I… Nothing, Sherlock." Molly was quiet.

"Okay." Sherlock brushed off the topic. That hurt Molly more than ever. "Can you email me the results, and tell the receptionist I'm allowed in?"

"Sure." Molly still sounded subdued, but Sherlock took no notice.

"Come on, Celia. We're off to a friend of mine in Camden."

"Okay." Celia said, cheerily. They left. And then, alone once more, Molly put her head on her arms on the desk and began to cry.

* * *

Professor Hugh Fitz-Stanley was a rather mousy, intellectual gentleman who had nonetheless seen more action and lived more wildly than most people ever will. He was extremely passionate about his subject, which was Amazonian tribal customs, and especially weapons and their utilisation of poisons derived from plants (he had always been interested in ethno-botany, and had studied it on the side). Fitz-Stanley, an enthusiastic anthropologist, had spent years living with his subjects and was apt to adopt some of their practises and even, on occasion, their dress. He was well versed in all their customs and had even learned their language and participated in their ceremonies and battles.

The walls of his small Camden house were covered in masks, art and weaponry: huge spears with tufted shafts wreathed in feathers and beads and lethal, evil-looking points hung crossed beside the stairs, looking ready to drop on anyone who passed; one wall was plastered in yellowing polaroid photographs on people and places taken with the camera Fitz-Stanley had possessed as a twenty three year old going out to the Amazon with some clothing and a small leather satchel of possessions, most of which he ended up swapping for weapons.

Fitz-Stanley had met Sherlock Holmes first when they has collaborated on a paper about the usage by western mafia of Amazonian tribal weapons. He had thought the younger man rather brilliant, and somewhat wasted in his current position. With a man like Sherlock Holmes at its helm, Fitz-Stanley believed, any university could have risen to greatness. But at the end of the day it was Sherlock's choice, and Fitz-Stanley admired him for standing by his decisions, unlike most young people these days.

Sherlock knocked on the door of the house.

"Door's open!" called a voice from within. Sherlock opened the door, and Celia followed him into Fitz-Stanley's living room. Fitz-Stanley looked up.

"Sherlock! Take a seat, old boy!" he cried, standing up. A second later, Celia entered.

"Ah. Professor, this is-" Sherlock began, when he was cut off by the elderly professor.

"Celia!"

"Professor!" The two embraced.

"My, my, this is a turn up for the books. What are you doing with Sherlock Holmes, my dear?" Fitz-Stanley asked, motioning Celia to a seat. She sat. Sherlock looked at the two of them, confusion showing all over his face.

"How do you two…?" he asked. Celia and the Fitz-Stanley both remembered he was there.

"I could ask much the same." said Celia, looking at the two.

"Well, let's all sit down and discuss it." The professor was a voice of reason in the muddle. Sherlock sat in one shabby arm chair and Fitz-Stanley turned to him. "I took Celia out to the Amazon when she was seventeen."

"I studied anthropology for a little while, you see." Celia added.

"Yes, and you were quite, quite brilliant. I do think it's a shame you didn't continue."

"Well, I was bound to get bored with it all at some point."

"Yes, I rather suppose you were. That's how I know Celia, Sherlock." the professor continued. "And as for how I met Sherlock, Celia, I collaborated with him on a paper about the use of Amazonian warfare tactics in western organised crime. Now, what are you two here about?"

"A murder committed using curare. I thought you were the great power on these things." Sherlock said.

"I see. Yes, I might be considered to be that. Our first port of call being?"

"Transport. How might one go about that?"

"One could pose as an anthropologist or ethno-botanist but that takes a lot of paperwork which one assumes most criminals would not go to the trouble of gaining when they could smuggle in the goods much more easily in shipments coming in."

"What of?"

"Medicinal drugs, most likely, since many are derived from compounds found in Amazonian plant species."

"Ah, yes, of course. Thank you, professor, you've been extremely helpful to us."

"I like to be of service. It was good to see you both again. And nice to see that you've both finally found a partner of the same intellectual level as you. Are you serious? Planning a wedding at all? You will invite me if you are, won't you?"

"Of course we would, if we were, but we aren't." Celia interjected. "Sherlock and I are partners in business only."

"Really? Shame, shame. You two would make an extremely good looking couple – and you're so similar."

"Right." Sherlock smiled, forcedly, and he and Celia left.


	6. Six: Anthea's true name

Sherlock and Celia sat pushed together, craning to see the laptop that sat on the coffee table next to them. The screen showed a diagram consisting of a complex mesh of lines, labelled with chemical symbols: OH, O, N, CH3, 2Cl… Some astute students of chemistry or botany would have recognised it as curare, but only a very select few. It was unusual and complicated. Sherlock nodded at the screen.

"Yes. Definitely curare. A very distinctive chemical makeup." he said.

"Quite." Celia replied. "Now, onto methods of transport. Smuggling seems most likely, however something like this would be more easily smuggled in a large shipment of similar items – not all curare, obviously; one could hardly make a living off of that alone. Drugs on a larger scale, perhaps?"

"Mm."

"Where did you get the stuff from?"

"A friend high up in the worlds of criminal gangs. I say a friend, but what I mean is someone I could blackmail. You?"

"A dealership. They had a textiles shop as their front – used to smuggle the packets inside drawers masquerading as silicone gel."

"Clever."

"Yes. I came up with it. Before that they had simply been shipping it in on illegal freight boats. That was stupid – they used to lose half their stuff to raids before I stepped in."

"So I should imagine. Such a front does seem likely. The plan was ingenious and the creator– the killer, I mean - would only have used an extremely intelligent and secure dealership."

"Yes. Hugh said that medicinal drugs shipments seemed a likely target."

"Hugh?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Is that what we're calling him now?"

"Well, we were on first name terms when I was seventeen."

"You were? I presume it went further than that?" Sherlock made a suggestive face.

"What? No! No. Can you imagine Professor Fitz-Stanley doing that? No, I was simply his protégé and far, far above the levels of the university students he was taking."

"Of course you were. We have never been on a par with ordinary folk."

"No, quite right. Now, would you like to research medicinal drugs shipments while I go and ask some friends?"

"Friends?"

"Oh, come on, Sherlock – you know what I mean: drug addicts, the people who use these services. I'm still considered a user. People don't believe in rehab." She paused. "I don't believe in rehab. I'd still take the stuff if they hadn't court-ordered me. I can get proper rumour and word on the street stuff."

"All right."

* * *

Celia was walking down the road when the car drew up. It was sleek and black with tinted windows – the security people had insisted on that, much though Mycroft had repeated that it was unnecessary. The door swung open. Celia stopped and turned. She knew what this was.

"Miss Grant?" the girl sitting inside asked, momentarily looking up from her phone.

"You know me, Anthea. Is there really a need to ask the self-evident?"

"No. Orders are orders, though. Get in the car."

"Sure." Celia slid in next to Anthea and buckled her seatbelt. Anthea returned to her phone. Celia watched her for a second. "Still a bitch." she muttered, under her breath, before withdrawing to the recesses of her mind. On the face of it, Anthea was texting, but when one is in with Mycroft Holmes one learns to put up a smoke screen. Beneath her outward benignity she was remembering and, mostly, she was remembering why she hated the girl next to whom she sat.

* * *

Anthea had been sceptical about the assignment from the off but if you wanted to remain in MI6 you did not, under any circumstances, refuse a task from Mycroft Holmes. She had arrived at the rehabilitation centre and looked for the girl whom she was supposed to recruit.

She came in and was ushered into the office of the woman who ran the place.

"So you'll be put in a room with Celia." the woman said once the two had sat down and exchanged pleasantries.

"Does she not already have a roommate? I thought you always made your people share?"

"Yes, well…" the woman paused. "We had a bit of an incident with her."

Anthea wrinkled her nose. "Explain."

"She locked herself in the bathroom and accused her roommate of sexually harassing her and being drunk."

"Ah. I see."

"Yes, quite. You might as well go and unpack. She won't be into your room to see you until tonight."

"Why?"

"She's currently in isolation during daytime hours."

"Why?"

"Because she refuses to acknowledge that she ever abused drugs or was addicted and because she is being really horrible to the other inhabitants. She insults them." Anthea grimaced.

"I see." She went to unpack and at half past nine she was ready for Celia, who came in and surveyed her.

"MI6, is it?" Celia asked, though it was more of a statement than a question really. "And you don't want to be here. Fair enough. I mean, none of us want to be here and you haven't touched drugs since," she paused. "Your last year of university, though you occasionally drink to forget." Anthea sat down with a little moan. This girl was as bad as Mycroft.

"Yes, that's me."

"And what are you here for, Anthea?"

"How do you know my name?"

"It's written on the tags on your bag. You didn't want any junkies stealing it, evidently. And I am aware that it's not your name, and that you are deeply embarrassed by your given name – so would anyone be – I mean, _Euphemia_. I shall call you Anthea out of a respect for human dignity which I usually lack."

"O-okay. I'm here to see you."

"Ah, how nice." Celia's tone was dry and sardonic. "Have you any particular aim in mind?"

"I'm supposed to recruit you."

"Ah. Mycroft Holmes, I assume?"

"Yes. How did you…?"

"Word gets round."

"Right. Um, yeah. We can get you out of here."

"Can you indeed?"

"Yes."

"It was a rhetorical question. Remember those in future. Tell your employer that I would rather he and his organisation spied on me in a slightly less visible way."

"What makes you think we'd be spying on you? You're just some junkie, as far as I see it."

"Now that's where you're wrong. I am a psychopath with acute skills of observation and an IQ that is extremely high and nearing that of Mycroft Holmes whilst being on a par with that of his younger brother."

"Right…"

"And I have won the man booker prize twice."

"What, seriously?"

"Yes. I have refused your offer so you may as well leave, my dear."

"Right, uh, sure, yeah." Anthea left.

* * *

Mycroft was sat at desk, waiting. He heard the door outside open and shut and looked on as Anthea came into his office.

"You have her?" he asked.

"Of course." Anthea replied. She wanted to add that she hated Celia and wished that she would never again have to set eyes on her, but that was not the sort of thing one said in front of one's superiors, though knowing Mycroft he could probably read her thoughts.

"Send her in." Anthea left gratefully and Celia entered. She sat down opposite Mycroft without being invited to, crossing her legs comfortably. She picked up a pen from the desk and began fiddling with it, looping her hair up into a bun and sticking the pen through to fasten it as she was always apt to. Mycroft watched her, a little amused. "So I finally have the pleasure of meeting the great Miss Celia Grant in person." he said.

"Likewise – the legendary Mycroft Holmes."

"Quite. What is the exact nature of your relationship with my brother?" Mycroft asked, jumping straight to the point.

"I work cases with him."

"There is nothing amorous between you?"

"No."

"Do you see potential for any?"

"I doubt it. I believe Sherlock and I will cancel each other out soon enough. We clash enough as it is – two vaguely narcissistic psychopaths continually trying to get one up on one another. We have a relationship similar to that of your brother and yourself."

"I see. And you enjoy working cases?"

"Well, it beats writing and being bored."

"I suppose it must."

"Do you always kidnap your brother's companions?"

"He has only had one previously and yes, I have."

"Did you send dear little Euphemia both times?"

"She prefers to be called Anthea."

"So would anyone – being called Euphemia is punishment enough for anyone, even her."

"Indeed. Yes, I did send Anthea twice. She is my most trusted envoy."

"Right."

"Are you quite sure you would not prefer to join the British secret service? I assure you that you would not get bored – there would never be a dull moment."

"Don't lie, Mycroft. Everything has its boring points. And no, I shall not be joining you. I find it deplorable to be publically spied on by you people."

"Fair enough. Would you like to return to where we picked you up?" Celia checked her watch.

"No. I was gathering information from drug users on the streets but since you have picked me up, I shan't have time."

"What sort of information?" Mycroft interrupted.

"For a case. We are attempting to establish which shop is the front for a dealership. Do you know of any dodgy chemists?" Mycroft thought for a moment and then wrote an address on a slip of paper and pushed it across to Celia.

"Try this." he said, simply.

"Thank you. Would your minions like to return me to Baker Street?"

"I don't think Anthea wishes to be in an enclosed space with you again. I fear violence might ensue."

"That seems likely. We cordially detest one another – she to a larger extent for I have the higher level of intelligence which she is used to occupying."

"Quite. I'll take you myself – I need to check up on my brother anyway."

"All right."

* * *

Mrs Hudson hurried into the room where Sherlock sat, his laptop perched on the end of the sofa on which he lay. He did not look up as she came in.

"Sherlock, dear, its Celia, and Mycroft." Sherlock shut his laptop and turned to stare at Mrs Hudson.

"Together?" he asked.

"Well, yes." Sherlock rubbed his eyes, as if trying to dispel a vision or a dream or, perhaps, a nightmare.

"Celia Grant and my brother _together_…" he repeated. "That's a terrifying thought. I hope it's only a brief encounter."

"I doubt it will be a lasting relationship." Celia added, as she and Mycroft entered the small room. Mrs Hudson backed out of the door to avoid what she saw as an impending sarcastic bloodbath. Sherlock looked up. "Did you miss me?" Celia asked.

"Oh, of course, baby, I missed you so bad." said Sherlock, playing along in an impression of lovers for the benefit of his brother. He just loved to watch Mycroft squirm. Somewhat gingerly, he embraced Celia, and the two made soppy parodies of lovers' expressions.

"Mycroft, when I said there was nothing amorous…" Celia began, seeing what Sherlock was attempting.

"She was lying, weren't you, honey-boots?" Sherlock finished, fully committing to his role. He ran a hand through her hair and made kissy faces at her. "You are just the cutest gal in town, ain't you?" he crooned. Celia stifled a giggle and said, in a voice that was as girly and stupid as she could make it,

"Not as cutesy as you, Sherrykins."

"Stop playing, you two." Mycroft's tone was terse and humourless, and his face was wreathed in an expression of upper-class distaste.

"Sorry, Mikey." Celia said, then stopped, realising what fun she could have with that name. "Can I call you that?"

"No." Mycroft was, as usual, incisive.

"Okay. Well, thanks for dropping me off, anyhow. Do you two want a little time alone?"

"No." Sherlock said, curtly. "You may stay, Celia. I see nothing that Mycroft could say that you would not be allowed to hear, or at least not instantly guess."

"Have it your way then, Sherlock." Mycroft said, smiling a little, artificially. "I only wanted to check up on you."

"Why not get your little spy to do it?" Sherlock looked pointedly at Celia.

"She refused my kind offer." Mycroft explained. Sherlock ignored him and raised an eyebrow at Celia.

"I refused the offer. Like I said, Sherlock, I would rather be watched a little less visibly. It's the irritating faces of all the agents, I think." she said. Sherlock smiled wickedly.

"Quite. If you have nothing more to say, Mycroft, then I believe we would all prefer it if you left."

"Fine. As you wish, Sherlock. Goodbye." Mycroft took up his umbrella and left, slightly huffily. Once he was gone, Sherlock and Celia sat down on the sofa together.

"Did he kidnap you?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course – its standard procedure, is it not?"

"For Mycroft, certainly. Did you actually manage to discuss things with any of your addict buddies?"

"No. Mycroft gave me this, though – dodgy chemist, apparently." she handed the paper to Sherlock. He looked at it, read it, and then opened his laptop and typed it into google.

"Babylon chemists? Not much here. Hang on." he said, pulling out his phone. He selected a group and texted them a message: _how many miles to Babylon?_ His phone bleeped three times. The messages read as follows: _four score miles and ten _(read the first)_, ask Linus _(the second) and _it's a case, right? You're not back on the fuzz_ (the third). Sherlock showed them to Celia.

"_How many miles to Babylon? _

_Four score miles and ten. _

_Can I get there by candlelight? _

_There and back again._

_Yes, if your heels are nimble and light._

_You may get there by candlelight._" She recited, prettily. Then, "Linus?"

"The third message is from Linus." Sherlock explained.

"Oh, I see. Text him back, then." Sherlock nodded, keying in the letters: _I can't say. _He wrote. _Babylon's a front though, right?_

_Yep. _Came the reply.

_What for? _Sherlock asked, typing at lightning speed.

_All sorts. They do mainstream mostly but you can order in special._ Sherlock exhibited the text to Celia, who smiled delightedly.

"Looks like we've found our place, and we've got good cover for infiltrating and proving what you can get." she said.

"Yes. Want to go back to drugs, Celia?"

"Like hell. It's a shame we can only pretend."

"Isn't it?"

"So let's get this plan straight. We go to the place, get some normal drugs, and say 'actually I have rather eclectic tastes. Could you, say, get hold of curare for me?'"

"That seems about right."

"If its run by a woman you can do the asking – unless she's lesbian, in which case I'll oblige, and if it's a guy I'll ask though you can do it if he's gay, okay?" Celia added. "The way I see it, we're both apparently fairly good looking and we might as well use it to best advantage."

"I suppose."

"When do we go?"

"Tomorrow, I expect. I'll ask Linus if you need to make an appointment."

"I doubt you do." She paused, considering something. "Wasn't Mycroft's face hilarious when we pretended to be together?" she asked. Sherlock laughed.

"Yes. Thanks for playing along."

"My pleasure. For the sake of that face I would've done almost anything." Had their life been a sitcom or any other television programme, what would have ensued would have been passionate kissing, followed by an advert break. Since it wasn't, that was where things stopped, and they crept downstairs to where Mrs Hudson was making pasta.

"Something smells delicious, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock said.

"Oh, it does." Celia added. Mrs Hudson looked at them sternly.

"Now I'll have you know that I am _not _making extra for you two-" She stopped; the two psychopaths were making pleading faces at her. "Fine." she consented – after all, who could resist those two at once? Celia or Sherlock alone was hard enough to ignore but together they were impossible. "Just this once though." she said, as she took another packet of pasta from the cupboard. "I'm not your landlady."


End file.
